


carpet burn

by vavafroome (spaceboy_niko)



Series: off season [4]
Category: Cycling RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, M/M, Multi, That's it, this is literally just an awful lot of dick sucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:47:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27851946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceboy_niko/pseuds/vavafroome
Summary: "did GB get carpet burn for his $5000?" - the offie stream 13/11
Relationships: George Bennett/the entire TJV Tour de France roster, implied previous George Bennett/Levi Leipheimer
Series: off season [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1999129
Kudos: 10





	carpet burn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magliarosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magliarosa/gifts).



> so i originally planned to have this done last week but didn't finish it, went bush, half-broke my phone, then just got drunk for a day. buy australian wines to stop wanky australians like me doing too many dang wine tastings.
> 
> anyways i've had this idea in my head since the first offy/ie and as we all know i am in love with george bennett so this is a natural evolution of whatever the fuck i'm on. it's far longer than i was expecting but really what's anyone going to do about it? stop me from writing contrived porn? i think the fuck not.
> 
> as always for magliarosa, thank you for dealing with the weird-ass vibes of me complaining about being rained on in a tent and then yelling about tadej pogačar after tipsily complaining about how much i don't like wine. i'll send you a bottle as a thank you

George is exhausted, physically and mentally. He’s about ninety per cent sure that if he were to die tomorrow, hell would look like another fucking French mountain with a gradient that makes his legs scream, and no flamme rouge in sight. If he’s really fucked up on earth, the powers that be will put him on a TT bike.

He can’t really even bring himself to look at the sights of Paris - it’s dark, and he’s tired, and right now the only three riders anyone cares about are Roglič, Pogačar, and Porte, so no one really notices when he drags his heavy legs up the stairs of the bus. It looks empty, and he thinks he can squeeze in a longer-than-usual shower to revive himself back to a normal person when the rest of the team arrives.

He doesn’t notice anyone else is on the bus with him, and starts when Sepp pokes his head up a few seats back.

“You look like absolute shit, George.”

George wants to laugh, wants to quip back _don’t I always?_ , wants to seriously say _I feel like shit too_ , but his brain feels shot to shit and the words don’t happen, so he drops into the seat like a stone and rests his forehead on Sepp’s shoulder.

Sepp wraps an arm around him comfortingly, thumb rubbing his shoulder gently, and George zeroes in on the sensation - sweaty Lycra almost-rasping over the skin in the shape of Sepp’s hand.

“Let’s get you into a shower, you’re disgusting,” Sepp says fondly, and George really doesn’t want to move, but Sepp pulls him up out of his seat and into the showers, strips him down and runs the water warm over the dirt and aches of the past three weeks. He can't be fucked doing a proper job of it - he'll shower for real again at the hotel - but he does feel a little better for it.

The bus is still empty aside from Sepp when he re-emerges, and he's warm and buzzing from the renewed blood flow. It makes sense to reclaim his seat, to press his face into Sepp's neck and make him laugh with the tickle of breath on skin, to kiss Sepp's still-laughing mouth and crawl into his lap. The seats aren’t designed for this, and George has to hold on tightly so he doesn’t slip as Sepp kisses him harder and rolls his hips up into the awkward angle. 

George isn’t concerned with how he gets off, not yet, but Sepp is searching for friction and not quite getting it, so George slides off his lap and kneels in front of him. Sepp knows what’s coming - this isn’t an unfamiliar situation for either of them - and pulls down the elastic of his sweatpants and underwear in one motion, working himself up to full hardness with long, quick strokes before he lets George touch.

George knows he doesn’t have to do this anymore - he’s not scraping by and doing what he has to, like he was all those years ago with Levi - but he takes Sepp into his mouth with enthusiasm because he likes doing it. He’s a people-pleaser, he likes knowing that he’s making his teammates happy, and a mouthful of come is a pretty telling sign that he’s done just that. 

Sepp is quiet, always is, always has been, just exhales heavily as George runs his tongue over the ridge, dallying between tip and shaft until Sepp slides his fingers into George’s hair and pulls him further down. He knows just how much George can take, how far he can slide into the hot slickness of George’s mouth until he nudges at the back of his throat.

Slowly, George lets himself focus on the sensations, ignoring the old aches and tiredness in favour of the weight on his tongue, the spit starting to coat his lips, the slide in and out as he lets Sepp fuck his mouth. It’s repetitive, a little mind-numbing - exactly what he needs to reset after the past three agonising weeks. Sepp pushes the pace a little faster, and George can’t keep up, so he just relaxes his jaw and takes it, letting Sepp take what he needs with soft pants and grunts and fingers tight in his hair.

Sepp’s close now, George can tell by the stuttering rhythm of his hips, and he braces himself to swallow when Sepp’s hips freeze up, but there’s nothing. He looks up at Sepp, wanting to ask what’s wrong, but Sepp isn’t looking at him, holding him in place by his hair.

Sepp is looking towards the door of the bus, eyes wide, voice hesitant as he says, “Hi, Tom.”

George decides to be a bit of a bastard, and sweeps his tongue around what it can reach, pulling back slightly to tease the tip of Sepp’s cock. He doesn’t hear what Dumoulin is saying, doesn’t care, isn’t even sure if he’s hidden well enough to make this seem a much more innocent interaction.

Sepp’s breath hitches, and George swallows him down again, watches him try to keep a neutral face as he chats idly with Dumoulin, watches the muscle in his neck tense and his façade crack as he comes into George’s mouth.

It’s the nail in the coffin for both of them when George slinks back up into the seat beside Sepp and presses a sticky kiss to his cheek.

Dumoulin’s eyes widen.

“Shit, sorry, I’ll leave you two-”

George is curious - Dumoulin’s new to the team, and he hasn’t had a chance to try him on for size just yet. He wonders what Dumoulin is hiding, wonders if Tom will cave at the prospect of some form of release.

Sepp beats him to the question. “You don’t have to. I’m sure George would love it if you fucked his mouth. He likes being on his knees after a grand tour.”

Tom looks at George, and George smiles coyly, watches his face for any sort of reaction, but he’s very much like Primož Roglič in the sense that he’s unreadable unless he wants to be read. He opens his mouth to say something, but there’s footsteps up the stairs of the bus and the rest of the team files in.

The mood is palpable, whatever it is. While second in a grand tour is nothing to sneeze at, it could have been first, and the celebration is tinted with the pallor of grieving for the fresh loss. Primož has this ineffable sportsmanship and charm about him, accepting congratulations and condolences with tired grace that makes George’s heart flutter - and maybe that’s because he’s all sentimental after three weeks of racing, or because he’s thrumming from the idea of having Primož in his mouth later, but he doesn’t trust his feelings when he’s in a state like this.

George is, by some luck of the draw, last off the table tonight - the swannie is set up in Wout and Sepp’s room, and he can hear Wout showering as his muscles are kneaded and prodded into relaxation. He doesn’t particularly want to leave, so he just waits once the swannie is gone, sitting on one of the two unclaimed-looking beds and metaphorically twiddling his thumbs until Wout is done.

Wout comes out of the bathroom in a towel, hair wet but not dripping, and his eyes widen when he sees George.

“You could have at least given me some warning, George,” he laughs. “On your knees.”

George doesn’t have to be told twice, and slides off the bed, walking on his knees until he’s directly in front of Wout.

Wout lets the towel fall - it brushes George’s arm on its way down, cool and fibrous - and he’s semi-hard already. Sepp must have passed on all the filthy little details of what they did on the bus, because once again, hands are in his hair and he’s swallowing around the thickness of Wout’s cock. Wout is thicker than Sepp is, and George has to stretch his jaw wider around it, and he knows that it’s going to ache later but for now he's too greedy for his own good.

Wout, like Sepp, knows how much George can handle, but unlike Sepp, he likes pushing him just a little further - George lets him play in the dangerous space between his mouth and his throat, feeling tears prick at his eyes and spit drip from the corners of his mouth, but he presses on, takes Wout's cock like it's the last thing he'll ever have in his mouth, until he gags and Wout pulls away quickly. Wout is rough, but he doesn't want to break George - what kind of a man would deprive another teammate of that opportunity?

George catches his ragged breath, feels Wout's hand reassuring in his hair.

"Should I go slower?"

He swallows, nods, and opens his mouth again. This time, Wout pushes in slowly, gives George time to mull over the softness and saltiness of the skin with his tongue, and pulls out again, leaving him with just the tip teasing his lips.

Wout fucks his mouth, slowly, but properly. George finds himself wondering if Wout would fuck his ass like this, and can't help the little whimper that escapes at the thought. Wout groans in response to the sensation, and moves his other hand to jerk himself off into George's mouth.

Wout comes unexpectedly, and misses George's mouth entirely. George barely manages to squeeze his eyes shut before he feels it landing hot and messy on his nose and cheekbone, dribbling down the side of his face to his chin. He's sure it's in his hair as well, if the sheepish look Wout gives him is anything to go by.

"Hold on," Wout says, pulling pants and underwear out of his bag, and George waits on his knees patiently, watching Wout dress himself.

There's a knock at the door, and Wout frowns slightly.

"Stay there." George wasn't exactly planning on moving just yet, so he nods.

Wout cracks open the door and peers out at whoever is there. George only half-listens, more focused on trying not to let Wout's come drip onto his shirt or the floor.

He hears "Sepp told me he was here-" and he's excited again - so Tom has finally caved.

Wout opens the door a little wider, and George can see Tom and Tom can see George kneeling on the floor with his tongue peeking out to try and catch a wayward drop. Tom looks winded at the sight, like he's tried to process it too quickly and choked on it.

Tom dazedly steps into the room, and Wout disappears into the bathroom again. Water runs, the hot water thuds in the walls, Tom is trying to look at both George and everywhere that isn’t George all at once. It’s interesting, George thinks, seeing this charming, unflappable guy so ruffled - he wonders if it’s some floodgate in his brain that needs to burst, or if it’s just the unfamiliar concept of happy-go-lucky stress-relieving group-ish sex that’s throwing him off. Tom’s wife is a shrink, he vaguely recalls, and concedes she’s probably figured all this out for him. Maybe she could tell George what’s gone loopy in his brain that makes him so okay with Wout van Aert coming on his face.

Wout returns with a warm washcloth, and wipes in gentle vertical motions down George’s cheek.

“Does this mean you’re done for the night?” George can’t tell if there’s disappointment in Tom’s tone of voice, and he shakes his head against the gentle pressure of Wout’s hand on his chin. George isn’t done until someone lets him be done, and if that someone isn’t Wout or Sepp, it’s Primož - although he wouldn’t be opposed to Tom finishing him off. He’s very aware of the twitch in his pants at that thought, but he’ll wait and see just how shy Tom is.

The water on his cheek cools with the air as Wout carelessly tosses the washcloth through the bathroom door, ignoring its splat onto the countertop, and pulls on a shirt. The silence is broken, not by Wout leaving, but by Tom.

“Stay?”

Wout’s confusion makes itself clear, eyebrows expressive and head tilted slightly.

“I- I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

George doesn’t move except for a turn of his head to follow the conversation.

“It’s simple. You put your dick in George’s mouth and he sucks it. He’ll let you fuck his mouth, too.” Wout hesitates, and George thinks back to the minutes before Tom knocked on their door. “Well, he will if Sepp and I didn’t fuck him up too much.”

George can’t help rolling his eyes - Wout knows it takes a lot more than the two of them to make him tap out.

Tom reaches into his pants, and George watches the gentle tense and release of his forearm, transfixed. There’s a palpable anticipation filling the room - Tom anticipating what’s to come, Wout keen to watch this scene play out, George curious what Tom’s going to slip into his mouth.

When Tom finally pulls his cock out, George can’t help but think that it suits him - some guys have dicks that they want to compensate for, some guys are bashful with nothing to be bashful about, but Tom is just nice to look at on a whole. He’s lovely, and the hesitance with which he approaches George is lovely, and the taste of the tip of his cock on George’s lips is just really fucking lovely.

“You don’t need to be so careful,” Wout says.

Tom looks conflicted. “But someone has to be.”

Very few people are careful with George - Primož is, Sepp can be if he wants to be, Levi was during that strange fuck all those years ago - and under other circumstances, this would be heartwarming and beautiful. While it is still both of those things, George doesn’t particularly need careful and soft tonight, but he likes this, and leans into the gentleness of Tom’s touches anyway.

Tom doesn’t particularly want to fuck his mouth, happy to let George play with just the tip while he strokes himself, breathing shaky and eyes dark. George isn’t sure if he’s an instrument in Tom’s self-inflicted torture, whether Tom’s deliberately trying to tease himself or whether this is just normal for him. George isn’t one to judge - how can he be, really?

George sucks a little harder as Tom’s hand skitters, erratic. He feels the pulse strong on his tongue, hears Tom groan and gasp, and feels him shudder into his mouth, finally relaxing into George’s lips with a sigh.

Wout exhales heavily, and someone’s phone buzzes in the quiet.

“Primož,” Wout begins, and neither of them need him to finish the statement.

“I’ll take him,” Tom says, and pulls George to his feet, catching him as he staggers slightly.

They leave past Sepp, Tom’s hand strong on George’s arm, keeping him upright and moving forward past a seemingly endless stream of matching doors. Tom doesn’t ask to reach into George’s pocket for the keycard to his and Primož’s shared room, returns it as the lock beeps and clicks, and gently nudges George into the room.

Primož is not alone - Zeeman probably catastrophised the loss into a worst-case scenario and insisted - he’s surrounded by the domestiques, Martin, Jansen, Gesink, their duties not over even though they’re off the road. The sight of George seems to defrost the tension in the room slightly. They all know why he’s here.

George’s legs are shaking at the reddening knees, his heart is pounding a mile a minute, his breathing is shallow and hot over his swollen lips. He’s a mess, and he knows it, so he gets to the point and drops to his knees to a symphony of shifting fabric. He knows Primož will wait his turn. Primož isn’t one to fight over the scraps with the domestiques - he’ll take the lion’s share when it’s his time.

He doesn’t register whose cock is in his mouth, when, how - all he’s aware of is the fullness of his mouth, the emptiness of it as they switch, the rub of his knees on the carpet and the burning of Primož’s gaze into the back of his head. Someone comes - he’s not sure who - and he doesn’t quite make a decision whether to spit or swallow, just lets it coat his tongue and make the slide of the next one easier.

George comes back to himself in a daze, and looks up into the face of Jansen, whose fingers are resting in the soft hair between the top of his head and his sideburns. He makes a decision and swallows, thankful for the relief to his aching jaw, and he doesn’t want to have to look to Primož for what comes next, but Jansen does anyway and it makes sense to follow suit.

"Can you leave us alone?" Primož asks, but George knows he's only phrasing it as a question to seem nice. He doesn't register much aside from the clicking of the door, open and shut, just focusing on Primož sprawled on the bed like an unintentional model.

Primož is hard, hand tracing the outline of himself through the fabric of his sweatpants, George can see from where he kneels, and he opens up again, expecting one last cock in his mouth before he’s taken care of.

But instead, Primož slides down off the bed, sits on the floor in front of George, and kisses him sweetly. It’s a new sensation tonight, and when they break apart he notices he’s shaking like a leaf.

“Georgie, you work so hard for us all, you’ve done so well," Primož murmurs, and George could cry with relief as he's gently guided to sit back and the pressure comes off his sore knees.

Primož fills the space between them, leans forward to kiss him again. George knows he tastes salty from everyone else, but Primož is still eager, coming forward to sit in George’s lap. He vaguely thinks that this is a near-perfect reversal of the start of the night, but the thought is jolted from his mind as Primož reaches into his pants and touches gently, not teasing, just careful, and wow, fuck, he’s hard.

George whines - it’s the only sound he can get out - and Primož knows, lets go for a second and breaks the kiss to bring his hand up to George’s mouth, and George takes fingers into his mouth, letting his spit slide messily down to the palm until Primož deems his hand slick enough, reaching back down between them to take both of their cocks in hand. It’s not the smoothest of slides, but it is more than George has had all night, and it’s a touch he gratefully moves with.

Primož guides him to lean back, until he’s lying against the hotel room carpet, bland and rough against his exposed skin, providing very little of the comfort he needs. Primož drapes himself over George, and his hand is suddenly so much tighter, there’s a stifling pressure between them, he can’t keep up with Primož’s rhythm, hips stuttering as he clings on to whatever part of Primož he can reach, it’s so much, it’s too much, it’s perfect and enough.

He doesn’t manage to form real words when he comes, just a silent, choked-up _oh_ caught in his raw throat, fingertips digging into Primož’s shoulders as he shudders himself into stillness.

Primož kisses him one last time, uncurls himself upwards, and goes to wash his hands - George hadn’t even noticed he’d come. He doesn’t move from the floor, watching the ceiling do absolutely nothing as he catches his breath, and he’s still on the floor when Primož emerges.

“You’re alright?” he asks, and George nods, sitting back upright and blinking as his blood flow re-establishes itself. Primož sits down next to him again, and offers a glass from the minibar filled with water from the bathroom sink, letting George take little sips and just sitting quietly with him.

“I feel like shit,” he finally manages to rasp out. It's the first thing he's said since they crossed the line on the Champs-Élysées.

Primož knows he doesn’t mean from the carpet, but he eyes over the angry-looking skin at George’s knees and elbows as he hums in agreement. “So do I. It was rough, yeah?”

“Fuck, rough is one word for it.” George has to take another sip of water.

“Still, we- we keep going, yeah? There is always the Vuelta.”

“Primož, I don’t even want to think about the bloody Vuelta right now,” George groans. “I wanna drink a beer or four and just crash.”

“Then we bring beers back to the room and be sad together.”

It’s a good idea, but something’s not right.

“I should be the one looking after you tonight, not the other way round.”

Primož bites his lip, worries it with his teeth as he comes up with the words. “Maybe it will seem a, a bit more real later on. For now, it is...it’s strange, for sure, but I am happy for Tadej. It’s going to hurt later, though. Then you will have to look after me,” he grins, leaning into George affectionately.

And George does - when they’re done with the pleasantries of dinner, and they’ve stolen a six-pack of beer each and made their way back to the hotel room with their prize, and when the bottle caps start to litter the floor, Primož lets himself mourn properly.

George holds him, and lets him cry, just sitting quietly with him.


End file.
